Greetings from St. Louis!
This week I’m attending Urbana International Missions Convention in St. Louis, Missouri. After red-eye flying from Portland last night, I’d have to say I’m doing a lot better than I thought I would be at this point. And while I can’t say I have anything interesting to say (or that it will be grammatically correct), I would like to write about the convention thus far and pretend like you care.
I never thought going as a “leader” would bring about sweet benefits like free books, magazines, videos, and other sources for absolutely no price, but then again I also can’t believe I’m in St. Louis’s St. Marks Hotel with a view of the Gateway Arch out my window for absolutely no price. Thank you Rolling Hills faithful!
The convention is pretty incredible. Full of wisdom and the excitement for this ambitious generation I am a part of (whether I like it or not). I’ve gotta say, the worship band led by Daryl Black is blowing me away every session. With a gospel-ethno beat and thick harmonies, the place gets rockin’.
Just attended a seminar on the history of Africa…very thick stuff that still needs digesting. “The Gift of the Poor in the North American Church” is the title of my next seminar and should probably leave for that about now. God is good.
P.S. I forgot about the Cardinals…already…am I still American?
P.P.S: Funniest Christian Shirt I’ve seen = Text across the chest of a woman’s tee: Jesus Own’s These. I think she thought it was funny too…but seriously.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Normal
I am not weird. There’s no way that I’m weird. Look at me. I’m a touch skinny -- maybe my hair is too long -- but I look normal. I am normal. At least I’m not that guy. Yeah, him. He’s not normal. I glance at my teenage face reflected through the glass at the bus stop. Yeah…normal.
I stare.
Oh crap there’s a woman on the other side of the glass. She’s starting back at me. I kind of shake my head in a cute way that says, “I’m sorry,” smile at her and turn away pretending to look for the bus. I love bus stops. I would probably stay here for a while if I didn’t find the actual bus ride more enjoyable. Ah, there it is. The 19 to Woodstock, my refuge, my rock, my ride. I approach the entrance but let the not normal guy go before because he’s, well, not normal. I do this in order to reassure myself that I am normal. I am no freak, no outcast. I am John Doe! I am a serf! A maidservant! Nothing exceptional! I am not fantastic, I am normal.
Praise God, the bus is not full. It rarely is at 3:30 – which is my normal time to come home. I sit in my normal spot (second row on the right side in the back section, window seat bitch) and put my bag on the seat to my right in a way that says, not today, this one’s taken.
In my backpack lies an assortment of supplies: A notebook, random hip book, change of shirt, iPod, and my Bible. I search through the items to see what toy I want to play with on my ride home. The notebook would make me look like a creep, people would most likely think I was writing about them, selfish bastards. And while most of them would be right, I would be taking notes on them, how dare they think that all I do is write about the odd people and situations I run in to. Exnay on the change of shirt because – although I have thought about this many times – there is no good way to play with a shirt on the bus. It wouldn’t be…normal. I don’t want to listen to music. So cliché, white ear buds on the bus with a backpack…so cliché, so expected of my generation and me. A big Negative on the iPod. My Bible? How upfront. How imposing. Look at me, fellow bus riders, I am righteous, full of compassion for you lowly sinners! I am Moses! Joshua! Follow me and attain the promise land! I settle for the random hip book. That is unexpected of the new, iPod, nonliterary generation in which I was thrown into like a piece of a recipe. Yes, a book.
As I open my novel, I notice a man in the front with sunglasses. He’s holding a stick with a green tip on it. Blind. This dude is blind. To be perfectly honest I’ve always wanted a blind friend. I want his name to be Jefferson. He could be black, or white, I mean not like that matters or anything. Just a blind friend named Jefferson. I have always wanted to know what their life is like. There’s that great question: “Chris, would you rather be deaf or blind?” I always opt for being blind. I think it is because I just love music, and even more so, singing. I guess I just simply love sounds. The train outside my window at night, the trees in the wind, the voice of a young woman. But me and Jefferson would go downtown and I would walk him through the streets and funny things would happen to us. Like I wouldn’t see an oncoming vehicle about to strike us, but he would hear it, grab my arm, and I would gasp. Oh! He would say something becoming like, - well I don’t know what he would say but it would always be clever and new, fresh like something I would never have thought of.
I continue to examine this blind youth sitting at the forefront of the bus. He looks my age. He’s white, with blond hair and skinny arms. He looks like a Jefferson. No that’s absur—
Oh crap he caught me staring at him like the lady at the bus sto—waaait. Ha. Damn, that’s something I never took into consideration when being asked the question. I would never know if some wacko was staring at me, I think that would bother me. Yeah, that would bother me. But that’s a small price to pay to be able to continue to hear a G major chord. Oh Jefferson. I need to stop thinking this guy is my buddy because if I don’t I will end up walking off the bus with him. I love this guy. I should read my book. What am I doing? I am not normal. I should ask the man in front of me. Excuse me sir, but do you think I’m normal? I mean, do I look all right to you? I haven’t done anything strange or out of—
I’m going to read my book. I’m not normal. No normal person would have an imaginary blind friend named—forget it.
I stare.
Oh crap there’s a woman on the other side of the glass. She’s starting back at me. I kind of shake my head in a cute way that says, “I’m sorry,” smile at her and turn away pretending to look for the bus. I love bus stops. I would probably stay here for a while if I didn’t find the actual bus ride more enjoyable. Ah, there it is. The 19 to Woodstock, my refuge, my rock, my ride. I approach the entrance but let the not normal guy go before because he’s, well, not normal. I do this in order to reassure myself that I am normal. I am no freak, no outcast. I am John Doe! I am a serf! A maidservant! Nothing exceptional! I am not fantastic, I am normal.
Praise God, the bus is not full. It rarely is at 3:30 – which is my normal time to come home. I sit in my normal spot (second row on the right side in the back section, window seat bitch) and put my bag on the seat to my right in a way that says, not today, this one’s taken.
In my backpack lies an assortment of supplies: A notebook, random hip book, change of shirt, iPod, and my Bible. I search through the items to see what toy I want to play with on my ride home. The notebook would make me look like a creep, people would most likely think I was writing about them, selfish bastards. And while most of them would be right, I would be taking notes on them, how dare they think that all I do is write about the odd people and situations I run in to. Exnay on the change of shirt because – although I have thought about this many times – there is no good way to play with a shirt on the bus. It wouldn’t be…normal. I don’t want to listen to music. So cliché, white ear buds on the bus with a backpack…so cliché, so expected of my generation and me. A big Negative on the iPod. My Bible? How upfront. How imposing. Look at me, fellow bus riders, I am righteous, full of compassion for you lowly sinners! I am Moses! Joshua! Follow me and attain the promise land! I settle for the random hip book. That is unexpected of the new, iPod, nonliterary generation in which I was thrown into like a piece of a recipe. Yes, a book.
As I open my novel, I notice a man in the front with sunglasses. He’s holding a stick with a green tip on it. Blind. This dude is blind. To be perfectly honest I’ve always wanted a blind friend. I want his name to be Jefferson. He could be black, or white, I mean not like that matters or anything. Just a blind friend named Jefferson. I have always wanted to know what their life is like. There’s that great question: “Chris, would you rather be deaf or blind?” I always opt for being blind. I think it is because I just love music, and even more so, singing. I guess I just simply love sounds. The train outside my window at night, the trees in the wind, the voice of a young woman. But me and Jefferson would go downtown and I would walk him through the streets and funny things would happen to us. Like I wouldn’t see an oncoming vehicle about to strike us, but he would hear it, grab my arm, and I would gasp. Oh! He would say something becoming like, - well I don’t know what he would say but it would always be clever and new, fresh like something I would never have thought of.
I continue to examine this blind youth sitting at the forefront of the bus. He looks my age. He’s white, with blond hair and skinny arms. He looks like a Jefferson. No that’s absur—
Oh crap he caught me staring at him like the lady at the bus sto—waaait. Ha. Damn, that’s something I never took into consideration when being asked the question. I would never know if some wacko was staring at me, I think that would bother me. Yeah, that would bother me. But that’s a small price to pay to be able to continue to hear a G major chord. Oh Jefferson. I need to stop thinking this guy is my buddy because if I don’t I will end up walking off the bus with him. I love this guy. I should read my book. What am I doing? I am not normal. I should ask the man in front of me. Excuse me sir, but do you think I’m normal? I mean, do I look all right to you? I haven’t done anything strange or out of—
I’m going to read my book. I’m not normal. No normal person would have an imaginary blind friend named—forget it.
Monday, December 11, 2006
A Ton of Bricks
It's funny when ideas come to you. You're sitting late at night watching the street and late night TV when a barrage of words hit the back of your head. Certain ideas of sounds. You know your voicemail is full of these sorts of things - that I have piles of scratch paper piled in my basement - but all of a sudden there is so much movement. Run to find paper and a pen while humming (not singing to wake anyone up) and rummaging through the household.
Now I'm up listening back to this idea I will most likely hate tomorrow morning. Such is life.
Saturday, December 9, 2006
Good Day, Mr. Kubrick...
In 1984, Director Stanley Kubrick posted ads for young actors to send in tapes for the lead in Full Metal Jacket...just watch this please.
I Did Not Know I Missed This...
Got back to Portland today...so happy to be done with the quarter and to move on from classes like psychology taught by Dr. Les Parrott. Buuuutttt....I found out something when I was driving home/at home.
I totally missed driving to music.
I think it is my favorite thing to do. Ever. I drove back from Beaverton tonight at like 1:30am just listening to Tom Waits' The Heart of a Saturday Night and figured out how much I took that for granted.
Interesting note: I was sitting at my desk on my last night talking to a friend and I witnessed a mouse climbing around in the tree outside my window. A mouse. Climbing a tree. Does that happen? More on this later...
I totally missed driving to music.
I think it is my favorite thing to do. Ever. I drove back from Beaverton tonight at like 1:30am just listening to Tom Waits' The Heart of a Saturday Night and figured out how much I took that for granted.
Interesting note: I was sitting at my desk on my last night talking to a friend and I witnessed a mouse climbing around in the tree outside my window. A mouse. Climbing a tree. Does that happen? More on this later...
Thursday, December 7, 2006
Happy Birthday Larry Bird
He showed the world that white men could not just jump, but shoot, pass, and talk trash. He's considered basketball's greatest white man to play the game and holds records in both college and professional levels of basketball. But his legacy is not his statistics or his attitude, it was the way he viewed the game of basketball.
In the late 1970s and early 1980s, the National Basketball Association was in its greatest downfall. "I wouldn't have been surprised if the league were to fold," said Erving Johnson, a guard for the Philadelphia 76ers in the late 70s. Due to excessive fighting and bad language by the players, games began to be run with tape delay of almost five minutes. Articles were being written about the racial side of the game, saying the league was "too black" and had lost its since of competition. Teams were becoming readily available and incredibly cheap.
Larry Bird was drafted by the Boston Celtics in 1979 from the Indiana State University. He was considered "the great white hope for basketball." His rookie year brought him mounds of media attention for his rough attitude and country looks. "But this guy could play the game," said William Nack, a writer for Sports Illustrated. Bird had a gift.
But for every Ali, there is a Frazer, and Bird met his match in 1984 when he played Magic Johnson. This rivalry would save the NBA because of its fierce competitive nature. The Lakers hated the Celtics and every Celtic hated the Lakers. The two men brought a rich sense of competition to a dying game. The 1980s and early 90s were considered the NBA golden years. You could watch these highlights for days; Bird vs. Magic, Jordan vs. pretty much everyone. Larry Legend is credited to sparking this type of game play, and is something that you rarely see in a sport.
When I look at those tapes with the Boston Garden packed to the nosebleeds even on a pre-season game, I wonder about the state of the NBA now. Who's saving the game? It should be realized that it has gone through an immense depression with drug use and egotism. The NBA needs a savior, and I'm not saying he's not there yet. But the game is played completely different than it was in the golden years. With hardly any defense, some games are in the 120s. Everyone wants to hold a record and go for personal achievement instead of great competition and a good team.
So cheer's to Larry Bird today on his 50th birthday, the man deserves everything he has.
PS. I found this great Larry Bird montage set to John Mellencamp's "Smalltown"...absolutely fantastic. Oh children this is basketball.
Monday, December 4, 2006
Free Mochas and American Flags
I am here. Here. Right now, here. The American flag waves outside of the window with a sort of ashamed grace. I came here to study, and to redeem my free Starbucks beverage. The coupon was given to me back in Portland on Thanksgiving Day.
“Oh, here you are, sorry,” said the barista apologetically.
“What?” I snapped back.
“Here, take this,” she said as she handed me a free beverage coupon.
“Are you just handing these out today?” I said in confusion.
“No, just when we screw up a drink,” she replied.
“But you didn’t screw up my drink, er, I mean, I don’t know if you did yet.”
“Oh no, I just took too long, I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah”
“Ok”
“Yes”
“Great, I will leave now, out this um, door.”
Yeah, so rock ‘n’ roll for Starbucks and their pledge to make your drink with incredible speed and astonishing accuracy. Now I’m downing this mocha, and I can’t decide if it tastes good because it was made with incredible speed and astonishing accuracy or just because I didn’t pay a dime for it. But that’s beside the point. Frick, what is the point?
Whatever.
I’m looking at this flag outside - it’s the American flag - and it waves in the foreground of the Emerald City, which is currently framed by thin, dark clouds. I did come here to study. My books are in my bag right now and sort of looking at me like I’m crazy. Writing about free mochas and American flags? You need to think about Skinner and Piaget, or Greene and Lewis, people that are above you – you dirtbag. Dirtbag? What the hell? That’s not even one word…it’s dirt (space) bag. Dirt bag. I know I should study. It’s really quiet right now in Starbucks, and that’s rare. Usually a good assortment of neo-jazz and old Christmas songs about this time. But the city looked way too good today. I’m living what I’ve been wanting to live right now, and while all I want to do is return to Portland, I’m finding comfort in becoming lost in such a big city. I’m on the outskirts of Seattle now, by Union Bay, watching ships rock back and forth, young business women’s hair fly in the wind.
We sort of like to be lost, to be unheard of for a while. Community stresses people out, annoys our conscience, but sometimes we love to return to the garden and hide from ourselves, and Someone Else. No one knows me here. I could go talk to that guy over by the door and tell him I’m about to leave for Iraq, scared to death and deeply saddened that I can’t spend Christmas with my family. I could cry in his arms and freak this whole place out, maybe pull out a small handkerchief and wave in the air dramatically while I yelped for the country.
Or not.
I think I’ll just hide. I’ll look at that flag wave in the air, stare at the city, and keep talking to my textbooks. This is just a part of all of us. We love to belong, but hiding who we are and starting as a new person is something we sometimes wish for. Lead a dramatically different lifestyle somewhere far away. But the same thing always runs across my mind when I look at cities from far away: Since when is it about me?
“Oh, here you are, sorry,” said the barista apologetically.
“What?” I snapped back.
“Here, take this,” she said as she handed me a free beverage coupon.
“Are you just handing these out today?” I said in confusion.
“No, just when we screw up a drink,” she replied.
“But you didn’t screw up my drink, er, I mean, I don’t know if you did yet.”
“Oh no, I just took too long, I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah”
“Ok”
“Yes”
“Great, I will leave now, out this um, door.”
Yeah, so rock ‘n’ roll for Starbucks and their pledge to make your drink with incredible speed and astonishing accuracy. Now I’m downing this mocha, and I can’t decide if it tastes good because it was made with incredible speed and astonishing accuracy or just because I didn’t pay a dime for it. But that’s beside the point. Frick, what is the point?
Whatever.
I’m looking at this flag outside - it’s the American flag - and it waves in the foreground of the Emerald City, which is currently framed by thin, dark clouds. I did come here to study. My books are in my bag right now and sort of looking at me like I’m crazy. Writing about free mochas and American flags? You need to think about Skinner and Piaget, or Greene and Lewis, people that are above you – you dirtbag. Dirtbag? What the hell? That’s not even one word…it’s dirt (space) bag. Dirt bag. I know I should study. It’s really quiet right now in Starbucks, and that’s rare. Usually a good assortment of neo-jazz and old Christmas songs about this time. But the city looked way too good today. I’m living what I’ve been wanting to live right now, and while all I want to do is return to Portland, I’m finding comfort in becoming lost in such a big city. I’m on the outskirts of Seattle now, by Union Bay, watching ships rock back and forth, young business women’s hair fly in the wind.
We sort of like to be lost, to be unheard of for a while. Community stresses people out, annoys our conscience, but sometimes we love to return to the garden and hide from ourselves, and Someone Else. No one knows me here. I could go talk to that guy over by the door and tell him I’m about to leave for Iraq, scared to death and deeply saddened that I can’t spend Christmas with my family. I could cry in his arms and freak this whole place out, maybe pull out a small handkerchief and wave in the air dramatically while I yelped for the country.
Or not.
I think I’ll just hide. I’ll look at that flag wave in the air, stare at the city, and keep talking to my textbooks. This is just a part of all of us. We love to belong, but hiding who we are and starting as a new person is something we sometimes wish for. Lead a dramatically different lifestyle somewhere far away. But the same thing always runs across my mind when I look at cities from far away: Since when is it about me?
Friday, December 1, 2006
Awesome and The Long Winters
"I'm feeling a left," I say as if they were both listening. Ben pipes up from the back:
"Yea, um, left seems good."
This was the talk that went on once we reached the University of Washington, which is practically its own city. The problem with the campus (and i love the campus, don't get me wrong) is that there is no central point. The moment you feel as though you in the middle of the campus, turns out you're actually on the outskirts or in some strange campus suburb.
Needless to say, we were lost on our way to see The Long Winters play the Union Building at UW. After asking five people where the place was we found parking and headed in. The room was like an old gym, and the hardly anyone was there at 7:50, ten minutes before the show was to start. I got a strange feeling in my gut like this would be one of the worst concerts I would ever go to, and my last at this Union Building.
It was a diverse crowd, not all students. Adults and even children slowly filled the room. We were right up at the front and got excited once the lights went down. An ensemble of seven young men in business suits gathered on the stage and grabbed their instruments.
A Native American looking guy with hair down to the middle of his back said the first words into a microphone to the left of the stage:
"Hey thanks for coming for the opening band, we're Awesome."
That could have been the best introduction to any live music event I've ever been to (yeah, I've been around). The bands name was, in fact, "Awesome," and yes, they were in fact, awesome. The band consisted of so many instruments I don't feel like naming but included the banjo, mandolin, guitar, drums, and saxophone. If you've ever been in a choir, you could tell these guys were choir boys. The way they looked, acted, sang, and wrote, they were choir boys. They busted in with their first song which was an array of key and tempo changes with complex riffs on every note that fit so well together. They never took themselves seriously, always laughing and having a good time. The entire band was so relaxed, yet professional it was incredible. I just put my hand over my mouth and looked at Sean. The key to these guys was the fact that they made everything look so easy. While making incredibly complex chords changes and movements they would smile, laugh, and even dance quite a bit. Their melodies and harmonies are reminecent of a mixture of The Beatles and Tally Hall (winner of the 2005 John Lennon Songwriters Contest). If you want to see a great live show, see if "Awesome" is around.
After my face was done melting, The Long Winters took the stage in a very nonchalaunt and comfortable way. They didn't act like rockstars, but more like your friend. I love this. The front man for the group, John Roderick showed such ease with the crowd. When he got on stange he made a solid rock stance yelling, "Hello Husky Union Building!" as if he were greeting Cleveland. They opened with a fat version of, "Carparts" thick with Les Paul distortion and round Fender Bass. Throughout the show, Roderick gave the greatest stage banter I've heard in a while.
"I went to the University of Washington you know...didn't granduate...thanks for asking. But I never knew this existed. I had heard of it, but never came here. I went downstairs, of course, because...I like tacos."
He was very relaxed and just talked to you. Never tried to impress anyone. At one point during a guitar solo, Roderick's guitar came unplugged and went quiet. He went on scatting the entire solo, and low a behold, right as the pre-chorus was building, his amp rushed in with immense feedback and he struck a huge A chord to come into the chorus pumping the song back into life.
A very "college" like show all in all. The crowd bopped to tunes off their latest record "Putting the Days to Bed" as well as some classics from old records. The band left the stage with Roderick again saying in a "rockstar-like" tone, "Goodnight University of Washington!"
"Yea, um, left seems good."
This was the talk that went on once we reached the University of Washington, which is practically its own city. The problem with the campus (and i love the campus, don't get me wrong) is that there is no central point. The moment you feel as though you in the middle of the campus, turns out you're actually on the outskirts or in some strange campus suburb.
Needless to say, we were lost on our way to see The Long Winters play the Union Building at UW. After asking five people where the place was we found parking and headed in. The room was like an old gym, and the hardly anyone was there at 7:50, ten minutes before the show was to start. I got a strange feeling in my gut like this would be one of the worst concerts I would ever go to, and my last at this Union Building.
It was a diverse crowd, not all students. Adults and even children slowly filled the room. We were right up at the front and got excited once the lights went down. An ensemble of seven young men in business suits gathered on the stage and grabbed their instruments.
A Native American looking guy with hair down to the middle of his back said the first words into a microphone to the left of the stage:
"Hey thanks for coming for the opening band, we're Awesome."
That could have been the best introduction to any live music event I've ever been to (yeah, I've been around). The bands name was, in fact, "Awesome," and yes, they were in fact, awesome. The band consisted of so many instruments I don't feel like naming but included the banjo, mandolin, guitar, drums, and saxophone. If you've ever been in a choir, you could tell these guys were choir boys. The way they looked, acted, sang, and wrote, they were choir boys. They busted in with their first song which was an array of key and tempo changes with complex riffs on every note that fit so well together. They never took themselves seriously, always laughing and having a good time. The entire band was so relaxed, yet professional it was incredible. I just put my hand over my mouth and looked at Sean. The key to these guys was the fact that they made everything look so easy. While making incredibly complex chords changes and movements they would smile, laugh, and even dance quite a bit. Their melodies and harmonies are reminecent of a mixture of The Beatles and Tally Hall (winner of the 2005 John Lennon Songwriters Contest). If you want to see a great live show, see if "Awesome" is around.
After my face was done melting, The Long Winters took the stage in a very nonchalaunt and comfortable way. They didn't act like rockstars, but more like your friend. I love this. The front man for the group, John Roderick showed such ease with the crowd. When he got on stange he made a solid rock stance yelling, "Hello Husky Union Building!" as if he were greeting Cleveland. They opened with a fat version of, "Carparts" thick with Les Paul distortion and round Fender Bass. Throughout the show, Roderick gave the greatest stage banter I've heard in a while.
"I went to the University of Washington you know...didn't granduate...thanks for asking. But I never knew this existed. I had heard of it, but never came here. I went downstairs, of course, because...I like tacos."
He was very relaxed and just talked to you. Never tried to impress anyone. At one point during a guitar solo, Roderick's guitar came unplugged and went quiet. He went on scatting the entire solo, and low a behold, right as the pre-chorus was building, his amp rushed in with immense feedback and he struck a huge A chord to come into the chorus pumping the song back into life.
A very "college" like show all in all. The crowd bopped to tunes off their latest record "Putting the Days to Bed" as well as some classics from old records. The band left the stage with Roderick again saying in a "rockstar-like" tone, "Goodnight University of Washington!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
